dramatic music for a nuclear bomb or something more pleasant

the road to accomplishment
 is poorly paved by perfectionists,
most of whom should learn to play that
    drum they carry because the
pattern of their steps is fucked and i'm laughing
            (and that's fucked)

and i'm striving healthily
   toward that "spark-of-a-grin"
      (or so everyone is saying)

for that energy is easily transfered
    and when the c(h)ords that
     carry our power       break
    we respond with a song and
replace the cable in a dangerous way

and it's a lengthy dimension
 around those wiry strings-
we're just too big to know it

and it's funny because
  we waste impetus
jumping toward the forces
      lined-out above us

as if believing in the leaps
     is the only way to
  hold on to something
    and actually feel it

never mind the nerves that get us there
    we all want something to be more aware of:
                    a punch to the face
                       a glass of wine
  a moment stolen so as to stare at something
             we know is going to leave us-

like the wind when it has
     a little edge to it

when it cuts my face
    in a way i've not been able to do myself:

with purpose-
    intent to get somewhere
              anywhere everywhere

and when the breeze meets this cynic
  i'm already smiling, knowing it's
at least similar to real...which is a welcomed uncertainty

because from where i'm standing
   i can't tell right from wrong from empty

and from where i'll end up
  (i hope) i won't need to

speaking of barriers (an essay)

   There are numerous reasons for me to consider the conversational outlets presented to me daily, the main impetus being to determine which I will utilize to develop the subsequent qualities gained from verbal interaction. A slew of individuals are thrown my way, much to my chagrin, with a perspective "all their own;" ready to stand strong for their self-affirmed righteousness, brag of their so-called chivalry and practice their clandestine debauchery under a conveniently warm cloak of social acceptance. Due to this muddled sense of reciprocity, I am driven to ponder a less logical question (ostensibly poignant, yet still of dubious origin): would I be better off, or rather, would it preserve my mental stability, if I refrained from conversing with humans at all, and simply talked only to walls?

   In my personal experience, I have seen my peers as being of a quite uncivil comportment: quick to dismiss the rational arguments of others and even quicker to dismiss that the less socially affluent of us are even alive. The common words exchanged are mostly those of negative connotation: harsh insults, bitter quips, proclamations of the inconvenience you have caused by breathing; indeed, it is rare that a decent greeting is shared between two young adults these days, and I have found it quite the arduous task to ignore the oncoming slaughter of our desire to be inspired by the thoughts of those who surround us. 

   As the everyday instances in which two individuals cross paths are gradually mitigated and turned into meaningless moments-in-passing, we lose sight of the potential possessed by those we so lightly consider "strangers," forgetting that intellectual stimulation is an integral aspect of the furthering of one's own knowledge. This condition is so subtle, that most are unable to recognize it early enough to evade its devastating wake and are left with a residual fall- out that is much more onerous to avoid.

   I am often convinced most of my peers lack not only the desire for contact, but, also, the ability to create or sustain their respective roles in a propriety that, now-a-days, garners little respect; enveloped by our ever-perpetuated ant-like process of scurrying about: antennae bouncing, brief eye contact being the extent of our shared glances--no more than an instant of acknowledgment before we dart off on our parallel or perpendicular avenues, that inexplicable urgency drawing us nowhere. 

   In the rare occurrence that someone is courteous enough to leave an impression with me through use of language, it is difficult to exhibit an attitude free of intimidating attributes as sincerity in speech is so far removed from the status quo that it can easily be misconstrued as abrasive and is likely to startle the unsuspecting who are eager to get passed you and on to more significant appointments. To mention any more than the trivial, "How's the weather (your mother/the cancer/etc.)," is thought unnecessary, even taboo, and the intimate nature of personal affections remains unassimilated by the masses of those who have been conditioned and desensitized to the point of emotional palsy; an ailment that has stricken an astounding percentage of our youth, and threatens the lot of us likewise.

   Inanimate objects, such as walls, can not be taken by the urge to avert phrases of honest integrity and remain, almost always, exploitable at your discretion--listening, devoid of ill intent, to your every word. A wall will not interrupt nor challenge your opinion; it will silently agree with your suggestions and accept your disposition all while lending a kind ear of solace to your scattered frustrations. A wall can grant you introspective insight, albeit inert, insensate and otherwise incapable of offering you a cognitive response, by allowing you the opportunity to infer the reaction(s) you would evoke; giving all who would subscribe to this method an excuse to use another essential of our humanness which is disconcertingly experiencing a rapid decline in importance: the imagination.

   I am sure it appears a bit psychotic, to most, to even give a second thought to the concept of eschewing human discourse and supplanting it with a more disputable form of engagement, but many called others crazy for thinking that the world was round. Through years of study and personal research I have collected extensive evidence that virtually proves, among my fellow communicatively enabled students, the overly-expeditious decrease of passion toward the elucidation and articulation of anything of even the slightest profundity; a fact that saddens me something inexpressible, and prompts me to seek out new possibilities for disclosure--more fulfilling options like staring at the floor or, perhaps, screaming at the ceiling.